


Heir of Ashes

by HarmonySong



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, F/M, Heir of Fire, Pretty sad, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, during heir of fire, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-05-12 23:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5685721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmonySong/pseuds/HarmonySong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during Heir of Fire.<br/>Although Celaena tries not to let him, Rowan's words cut much deeper into her than she lets out. Combined with her failures with shifting and controlling her magic, and the overwhelming despair and emptiness inside her Rowan only spurs on, she turns on herself to pay penance for her crimes she's committed against her friends, her family, and her world.<br/>Surprisingly, it takes Rowan a fairly long time to figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Do it. Do it._

_Do it._

Aelin- Celaena, she reminds herself, she is  _not_ Aelin, Aelin is  _dead-_ grits her teeth, eyes flicking down to the dagger next to her, glinting so innocently on her bedsheets. 

_Coward. You are a coward._

The worst part about it was that it isn't even just Nehemia's voice that whispers in her ear anymore. Now, Rowan's voice joins in.  _Coward, coward, coward._

There are other, far worse things whispering in the back of her head, things that Rowan had said. His words were meant to cut deep and sharp, and hurt. And hurt they did. 

_Pathetic. Spineless and pathetic._

_No discipline, no control, and no courage._

She shivers, just slightly. She tries not to think about it, but Rowan...she's not even sure what she feels for him, about him. He terrifies her, and she's not even sure in what way. Just that, from him, the same insults that have been thrown her way all her life seem more vicious, more painful. Partially because he seems to know  _just_ how to get under her skin- or perhaps he's just lucky. She'd never know.

_Why don't I give you the lashing you deserve?_

She sighs. He's right, she knows. She deserves all the pain everyone in this entire world can bestow upon her, and much, much more. But  _still..._ the cruel, almost bored expression on his face...

_"You're worthless."_

_Her muted scoff. "Tell me something I don't know."_

_"You would probably have been more useful to the world if you'd actually died ten years ago."_

The worst part is that he was right- that he is  _always_ right. That, if she died now, she'd be just as useful as if she were alive. Which is to say, not at all.

She eyes the knife again. Rowan had been foolish to take his eye off of her after they'd gotten back, foolish to let her roam, alone, until she'd found someone's room, the knife gleaming on top of a bundle of their clothes like it was waiting for her to take it. Foolish for him to not have been watching her as she hid it in her clothes and brought it back to her room. 

Although she supposes he's occupied with his precious kitty-cat friend, Gavriel.

_I don't care what you have been through or what you want to do with your life._

Don't think, she instructs herself very carefully. Don't think about that. 

Don't think about the moment when the last ember of  _something_ inside her had guttered out into nothing. Had left her in complete, utter darkness and emptiness. 

_The sooner you can sort out your whining and self-pity, the sooner I can be rid of you._

Rid of her. Like she was a disease. 

She knows he isn't wrong- is he ever? She knows he's right. She is a monster, a plague. She's known that for a long, long time; the only difference now is how Rowan had finally voiced the very words she'd thought for years. 

_You are nothing to me, and I do not care._

Her hand inches towards the blade, before her eyes lift and she glances towards the door again; making sure it was locked, making sure there was no one outside of the door, no one anywhere near her. 

Because, if a Fae- even a demi-Fae- happened to be anywhere near her room when she started, well...

Don't Fae warriors tend to have a good nose for blood? 

 

* * *

 

It's not the first time she's hurt herself. No, not by far.

Even if you didn't count the time when Arobynn had forced her to break her right hand, or made her break her legs in order to get out of the head-to-toe restraints he'd put on her, or all the fights she'd gone into willingly, knowing she was probably going to die, she'd done much worse, much more explicit things to herself. Not a few of the scars on her body were from her own hand. 

But, regardless, it's the first time she's been so...calculated. So...precise about it. 

The last time she'd done it, she'd been 17, grieving, in the Endovier mines. She had hardly realized what she was doing when the axe she'd been using to cut stone had turned on her leg instead. It was a miracle it hadn't gotten infected. 

This time, though, this was much, much different. This is her paying all of her dead back. If they couldn't hurt her, couldn't get their dues from her, then she would do it for them. To honor them. 

Celaena glances briefly at the five, now covered by her tunic, cuts on her upper arm, strategically placed to give as much pain as possible without cutting into valuable muscle. Nehemia, Sam, Lady Marion, her parents. Then her gaze drops down to her side, where more wounds were hidden. One, for Dorian. One for Chaol. One for Aedion. Shallower, because they're still alive. She hasn't failed them quite as badly as the others. Not yet, anyway. 

She wipes the blood off the blade, hides it in the lining of her mattress. 

Maybe she should've made the marks deeper. Maybe she should've hurt herself more. 

It's what she deserves, anyways. 

 

* * *

 

The next day, Rowan is there, taking her into that old cave with Luca bound to the ice. 

It's hell, it's agony, the cuts throbbing with every movement, every breath. But she manages to keep her Fae form from healing them over. All while carefully burning through Luca's shackles and then running for their godsdamned lives. 

When they finally get back to the fortress, she's exhausted. Tired, and her bones ache, her wounds throbbing and the pain simply worsening since she knows she can't even wince or Rowan would know. How can he not smell the blood on her? 

She closes her eyes briefly. It's not that he  _can't_ smell it. It's that he just  _doesn't care._

 _You are nothing to me, and I_ don't care.

She glances behind her, eyes dull and almost dead. "Don't you dare touch him again," she half-whispers, voice hardly a croak. As she brushes past him, he moves to stop her. She grabs his wrist harshly and throws it out of her way. "Don't touch me, either." 

She feels him stiffen, hears a near-silent hiss, but walks off before he could say anything. 

She wonders if Rowan still thinks she's useless, still wouldn't care if she died. 

If he does, then that would be two of them. 

 

* * *

 

She apologizes to Emrys, to Luca and Malakai and all of them. They accept her apologies, but warily, and it makes her heart, and the cuts on her body, throb. Perhaps she should add an extra three to the next time she does it- should add them to her list of the people she's failed. 

But then, then there's laughter and almost...comfort. And for a moment, she could've sworn a tiny ember inside her lit up, just for a few minutes, just while she was with them, with Rowan who had the tiniest half-smile on his face. 

And then she's back in her room, and it fades. Fades as she locks the door and takes her shirt off. 

There're three more names, three more wounds she now has to add to her body. Three more cuts she'd never allow to heal for what she'd done to the people they symbolized. 

 

* * *

 

When it's all done, her clothing back on and her wounds clotted but still agonizingly painful, she eyes the tin of salve on her table. 

Not for her wounds, of course, but perhaps for Rowan. She can still hear the hiss he made when she grabbed him and Celaena has a very bad feeling that she accidentally burned him. If she wants to do penance for the others she's failed, it's only right that she gives him the salve. It's her fault he got hurt, after all. 

She growls and picks up the tin, ignoring the lightning pain throbbing through her entire body from the three new cuts and the ones she'd made before that she'd reopened. She has another debt to pay, now. 

It takes her all of a few minutes to get up to his room and knock, half-praying he wouldn't be there. When his snapped, annoyed  _what?_ sounds, she has to grit her teeth against a sigh. 

 _He's beautiful,_ she realizes once she comes in and sees him, shirtless, at his worktable. And not just him, but the tattoo running all the way down his body, from his face to the tips of his left fingers. The only thing that mars it are the bruises all along his ribs, the cuts and gashes around his wrists, and an angry, red, manacled burn on his wrist. 

"What do you want?" 

She tries not to look at his body, at the power and strength and grace that resides in it, and tosses him the salve. "I thought you might want this." she doesn't say  _I heard you_ or  _I'm sorry_ because she's not. She's not really anything. 

He says nothing, but his eyes stay on her, evaluating her. As if he could see the fresh wounds. _But that would be impossible,_ Celaena reminds herself. _They were clotted and dried minutes ago and you masked their scent with some herbs you stole from the kitchen._

And besides. It's not like Rowan would care if she 'accidentally' hurt herself. She's sure he's hungry for the opportunity to do it himself. 

"You could heal me yourself, you know," Rowan says finally. "You have that gift. It's in your blood." 

She tries not to glare at him and fails. "There's only the barest drop of water affinity in my blood, from my- from my mother." She pretends the last two words hadn't hurt. "It's not enough to heal anyone. I was told that long ago. That my flames were the only useful part of me." 

She wants to finish it, to add that there's nothing useful about her now, to feel her heart splinter just a bit more at Rowan's bored agreement. She ignores the part of her that wants to say it just for his rebuttal, for him to tell her she's wrong. 

She  _knows_ she's right. Rowan knows it, too. 

"Go to bed," he tells her, calm and measured. "We start at dawn tomorrow, as you've been banned from the kitchens." 

It's a clear dismissal; Celaena doesn't hesitate to turn her back and start out. 

And even though she thought she might've heard Rowan shift, thought she might've felt the slightest hint of regret from him- 

She still shuts the door. And then she walks all the way back to her room. 

 

* * *

 

"You're completely insane," Celaena growls, crossing her arms and suppressing a wince as deep, long rows of hidden cuts tug open and smart. Rowan doesn't give an inch, merely staring back at her with equal defiance. "You want me to tend  _three_ fires for, what? The rest of this night?"

"Until I say to stop." 

She growls, low in her throat. "I could kill someone."

"Then don't get out of control." 

She just glares at him, hatred- for him, but mostly for herself because of how  _hard_ it is to control herself, how  _weak_ she is- deep-set in her veins. But she says nothing, simply turning her gaze to the burning fires. 

The moment she exerts her will over them, they turn- black. Not noticeably, but mingled in with the blue and scarlet and purple, something undeniably black sparks and crackles. She smiles a bit bitterly, although outwardly her expression remains blank. Black flames for a black-hearted monster. It fits, perfectly. 

"Your power has evolved over the weeks," Rowan comments. Although he doesn't sound like there's anything in particular to be concerned about, he never brings stuff up just for casual conversation. He must've noticed the unusual colors. 

"At least, even if I'm useless, my flames are slightly entertaining to watch," she snarks back, voice a bit too dull. Rowan doesn't react, which is slightly disappointing; she'd been hoping for a fight, or at least something to keep her amused other than the dark-colored flames she was tending. She thanks the gods the Fae are too occupied in their celebration to think the unusual blues and purples of the fires are anything noteworthy. 

She wants to scoff, wants to tear into her skin again with that hidden blade. There's  _nothing_ noteworthy about her. She's just a sham  _queen_ with  _nothing_ except a blackened heart and an overwhelming uselessness no one would ever try to deny. Especially not Rowan, one of the only people that, well, one of the only people whose opinion she values. Mostly because he's one of the oldest, most powerful Fae alive currently. 

If Rowan; powerful, ancient Rowan, sees nothing worthwhile in her...how  _could_ she be anything other than worthless? 

 

* * *

 

The music is beautiful. 

It makes her long for better times, times when she had not been so unveiled to the full extent of her worthlessness. When she'd had Sam, or Nehemia; when Chaol didn't detest her like she is sure he must now. Times when they could be alive again, and maybe Rowan would actually think a bit more highly of her, instead of treating her like the scum on his boots- which she is. 

"Easy," Rowan murmurs into her ear, a muscle in his jaw twitching when she flinches involuntarily. 

"I know," she hisses back, trying to rein in the flames. The music's just so beautiful...

"When can I stop?" 

"When I say so," comes the unyielding answer. 

She wants to whine or plead, say she's tired, she's been bleeding for hours from the cuts ever since they reopened and her salty sweat has been steadily dripping on them, whine about how her magic is becoming harder and harder to control, but she stays silent. 

"Not much longer," Rowan finally amends. She almost sags with relief. Perhaps, soon, she can go and join the wild dances, move in tune to that entrancing music...

She sways a little, just a little, to the beat. _Magic, and music, they're not so different,_ she realizes. _They both build and create, both can be used to bind the beautiful essence of things together again. Can bind broken people together._

She sways a little more. 

"Easy," Rowan says again. "Let the music steady you." 

What would it be like, she wonders, to be free; free, like the music? To no longer feel the guilt and pain and blood of innocents, of her failures, on her skin? 

 _"Easy,_ Aelin." 

Gods, she hates that name. 

But more than her hatred of that, more than anything, she just feels the music. Feels her flames moving up and down with the drum beat. 

"Calm down. Steady yourself." 

 _Why?_ She wonders, looking at the flames- the things  _she_ made, undulating with the music. They are so beautiful; why should she calm them? 

She wonders, how much they'd hurt if she used them against herself. If they'd smart more than the blade she keeps in her mattress. 

"That's enough." She vaguely feels him grab her arm roughly, try to tug her. "That's  _enough,_ Aelin." 

But that hardly matters, she decides. She doesn't need to atone for her sins, either by fire or blade. Not if she can just...

She takes a step towards the fire. 

"Look at me," Rowan orders.  _"Look at me."_

Why? So he can just tell her how undisciplined she is? How uncontrolled and unqueenly? 

"Stop. Stop this. Stop the fires, Aelin." 

There's the slightest tinge of fear in his tone. She ignores it. Let him be afraid; she could care less. 

She takes another step. She still wonders what it'd be like to finally experience death; even death by her own flames. It'd be cruel, and perhaps a bit fitting. Fire can be one of the most painful ways to die. Perhaps almost as painful as how Sam did.

 _"Aelin!"_ his voice is louder, the fear easier to hear now. "Aelin, stop this! You're going to burn out!"

"Why do you care?" she asks, or tries. It never makes it past her throat. It's so...almost relieving, to hear him say that. Just a few hours- barely three- and she's already burning out. It's joyous, blessed. It's a confirmation of her worth, or lack of it. 

"Aelin," Rowan says, quieter. "Please. Stop this. You're going to kill yourself." 

Something in her blood flares viciously at his words, sadistic pleasure coursing through her veins. The same feeling she'd felt at Endovier, when she snapped, is running through her mind.

That's just the plan. She doesn't particularly want to make it out of here alive, not with the flames calling for her. 

There's a curse, then she feels Rowan back away from her. Good. She takes another step towards the fires. 

Then she hears Rowan whisper, "I'm sorry." 

She falls to her knees, gasping, clutching her throat. The air- it's gone. Rowan sucked the air out. 

Just like that, the fires die- but the one inside her flares up, an inferno of agony. The grass around her smolders and steams as she struggles to breathe, then stops.

She could die. It would be easy. 

Just- she just needs to let go.

"Breathe," Rowan orders, tone calm and low but not without that same tinge of fear in it she's heard a lot of tonight. "Breathe. Hold on." 

She doesn't want to breathe. 

There are new voices now, people yelling for healers, asking if there are any water-wielders. "Prince, you need to carry her. We have to get her to water."

Water. She loathes that word. Loathes it because it could be her salvation.

They're  _saving_ her. Saving someone who doesn't want to be saved, who doesn't deserve to be saved.

Would they still do this if they knew all the things she'd done, all the people she'd betrayed? Rowan doesn't even know half of what she's done and hates her- although that strange fear in his voice makes her wonder.

She silently curses herself for even  _thinking_ that. The fear was all for _himself._ All for himself and the rest of the people there. Not for her.

But even as she tells herself that, Rowan is picking her up, practically cradling her in his arms, icy air surrounding her as he runs. "Aelin, Aelin, stay with me," she thinks she hears, but she decides not to put too much weight into his words. She's probably hallucinating. 

Then she's cold, surrounded by water. It's blessed, perfect, but she growls. They should  _not_ be trying to save her. Not after what she's done, what she's become. 

"Freeze it!" 

"I'm trying!" 

There are confused, panicked voices around her- panicked because she could've killed them all, could still probably kill them now. Rowan's voice rings out the loudest. 

The water grows colder. 

_No._

 She wants to  _die._ She wants to die, dammit! It shouldn't be that hard! 

There are curses as the water steams, then Rowan's arms are around her again. "Get another tub!" 

She can faintly hear the boiling of the water before they're moving again, and allows herself to feel a faint, tired satisfaction. She almost boiled herself. Would've, if Rowan- stupid,  _fucking_ Rowan- hadn't gotten her out.

 _Why_ had he pulled her out? Just a few weeks ago, he'd told her she'd be better off dead. She was simply obeying the unspoken command there. 

She's plunged into another tub. This time, the water's frozen almost the moment she's in. She lets out a cry, one that could be interpreted as pained but is just frustration. 

 _Stop,_ she growls at Rowan in the depths of her own head.  _Stop trying to keep me alive._

The water heats again.

Rowan curses. 

Then it's cold, so cold she wants to shiver. It's instinct this time that heats it back up. 

Pulling and shoving back, the battle rages on for what seems like hours. Each time Rowan freezes the water, Celaena heats it up, trying to boil herself alive. Just as quickly, he cools it back down again, will impenetrable and steel-strong. 

Finally, finally she gives in, surrenders. The water stays cool; not icy, but not burning either. She will not meet her death tonight, at least not this way. 

"Good," Rowan breathes, much closer to her than she'd thought. "Good. Good job, Aelin." As if the heat hadn't been under her control. As if she hadn't  _tried_ to broil herself. 

"We should take these clothes off of her," another voice- female- remarks. "Help the cooling process." 

Panic stabs through her, adrenaline piercing through the veil of tiredness. "No," she rasps, opening her eyes. "Don't take my clothes off." 

Rowan hisses, eyes dark and dangerous. "This is hardly the time for modesty, Princess. And you're hardly the type, so knock it off." He reaches forward, hands moving towards her clothing- moving towards the burning, blistering, throbbing cuts all over her body. She knows Rowan will know exactly what happened the moment he sees them and doesn't want his pity- or his scorn. 

"No," she says again. Then- "Please." she hates having to beg, but she can't- can't let him see that. Can't let anyone, but especially not him. 

"Aelin-"

"Please." 

He grits his teeth and glares at her. "Fine. But you're staying with me tonight. And you don't get to argue your way out of that." 

Without waiting for her reply, he lifts her up out of the water and stalks off towards his room. 

 

* * *

 

It's harder after that, keeping her penance up. She manages to move the dagger to Rowan's- their- room one day, but it's almost impossible to find the right time to use it. 

Rowan almost never lets her out of his eye, even to bathe, and she knows he'd smell the blood with his Fae senses. But, still, she manages to do so, waiting either until after he's sound asleep next to her to crawl out of bed, or else waking up before him. She's almost surprised the scent of fresh blood doesn't awaken him, but she'll definitely count her blessings. 

Of course, that is until that one night when Rowan's pine-green eyes are darker, sadder than usual and he gets into the wrong side of the bed, trapping her against the wall. And then tangles himself up with her.

She gives him a mouthful of curses. "What are you  _doing?"_

"We're sharing a bed," Rowan retorts. "It's cold, and shared body heat is one of the best ways to stay warm." 

"We have a literal fucking  _fire_ going on," Celaena snaps but there's no real bite in her voice. Her and Rowan have gotten closer over the weeks. "And I didn't know you were such a cuddler." 

Rowan glares at her; she fights off a laugh. 

"Go to sleep." the words are pointed, almost like- 

She shoves the thought away. No. He doesn't know about that. He couldn't possibly. 

Although if he did, why the fuck would he care? He might not have insulted her lately, at least not as much as he used to, but that hardly means he cares about her. Celaena certainly knows  _she_ doesn't care about herself, so why should he? Why should an immortal Fae Prince care about her wellbeing in the least? 

 

* * *

 

She slips out of the bed a few hours later, once Rowan's breathing has slowed and he's rolled away just enough to let her crawl over his body stealthily. She could've sworn, just for a second, she sensed movement, but she shoves it away. She's just being paranoid. Her heightened Fae senses have been going haywire, that's all. 

But despite that, she still looks around an extra time, then turns around to survey Rowan's sleeping form for a long, long moment. His breathing is deep and steady, his face relaxed. He's definitely asleep, no doubt about it. 

She turns back around, moving with feline grace and swiftness to the place she'd stashed the knife- the lining of the rug in front of the fireplace. It's small enough she knows Rowan would never notice the lump in his rug, and well enough hidden in there that he'd give up trying to find its source. The perfect hiding place. 

She retrieves the dagger, dried blood still crusted on it, and wipes it on the rug. It's dark enough Rowan will never notice the slight stain there. Then she carefully, silently takes off her clothes, exposing not only her scarred back- which Rowan has never seen- but also the deep gashes lining her arms and torso. Which, coincidentally, Rowan has also not seen. Thankfully.

She furrows her brows.  _Thankfully?_ He wouldn't care one way or another. 

He wouldn't. 

...right? 

She picks the knife back up again, humming something as she looks over her scarred and mutilated torso for the best place to cut next. Should she reopen the almost scabbed over cuts or make new ones? 

Just as she's decided on new, just as she's putting the knife to her flesh, there's a deep growl and the knife is taken from her grip with a force she could never hope to counter.

"Just what the  _fuck,"_ Rowan hisses behind her, "Do you think you're doing?" 

 

* * *

 

 _Shit_ is about the best word to sum up her thoughts in that moment.

Then she forces herself to calm down. _Rowan wouldn't care, Rowan doesn't care,_ she reminds herself. _He'd just as soon see you dead as alive._

She pretends that night at the festival, that night when he'd practically begged her to stop before she burned out, that week afterwards he spent fussing over her, doesn't exist. 

"Penance," she answers coldly and turns around to face him, remembering too late that not only are her breasts exposed but also her new scars- and her cuts. She tries to turn back around but Rowan's arms snap to her shoulders, holding her there.

"Are you insane?" he snarls.  _"Penance?"_

"For all the crimes I've committed, for all the deaths that have been my fault," she snaps back. "Surely you understand that."

He flinches- just barely- just enough for her to know that he probably regrets telling her about his dead mate, about what Maeve had done to them. But he recovers quickly.

"Yes," he hisses, "Yes, of course I understand that, but  _this,"_ he motions to her bare torso, "This is  _not_ the way to deal with that!" 

"Why not?" Celaena fires back. "They're all dead, or close to it! Why shouldn't I do this since they will now never get the chance to punish me themselves?" 

Rowan swears, the vulgarity of his words almost surpassing her own curses. "Because that's  _stupid,_ that's why! Hurting yourself for no reason is completely idiotic!"

She gives him no answer, feeling the familiar underwater feeling creep in, like it always does when he says something particularly cruel. "There are people out there who need saving, people who need their queen, and what do you do? You're going to go and fucking  _cut_ yourself!" 

She grabs the knife back, quick as lightning, and backs away. Rowan doesn't follow. "Nice to know that, even now, that's all you think of me. The irresponsible, worthless would-be queen who can't do anything right." she laughs bitterly. "You were right, all those months ago." 

His eyes narrow. "About what?" 

"About how I'd benefit the kingdom more if I'd just died a decade ago." 

He goes silent, expression unreadable. 

She flips the hilt of the dagger in the air, catching it with perfect precision. "What? Got nothing left to say,  _Prince?"_ she sneers. "Nothing except more pathetic insults about my intelligence, my worth, my  _cowardice?_ Or are you finished yet? Are you done wasting your breath by telling me how worthless I am to you, to everyone?" her voice crescendos rapidly near the end of her speech, to the point where she's almost shouting. "Because you know what, Rowan? You've already said all this before! There's nothing,  _nothing_ new you can say to me,  _nothing_ that I don't already know about my own pathetic,  _worthless, cowardly_ self!"

Rowan's brilliant green eyes spark, and then he's shouting back. "Why are you so godsdamned  _thick?_ Why don't you ever stop and  _think_ that maybe, somehow, I actually rutting  _care_ about you? That, maybe, I don't  _want_ you dead?"

There's a long moment of silence. Celaena can hear her heart pounding in her chest in the deathly stillness of the room. Then, finally, she speaks, hardening her voice. "If you really do care, then you do a piss-poor job of showing it." 

"I do care," Rowan says honestly, empathetically. The sheer lack of any kind of subterfuge is what sets Celaena off. Rowan would never be that forthright with her.

She scoffs, crossing her arms in derision. "And here I thought, for a Fae, you were actually semi-decent. But, surprise, surprise, you're just as into playing with humans' minds as Maeve is. If you thought that something that petty could actually trick me, you're wrong."

He growls, eyes like glowing green flames. "You think I'm lying? Fine." 

Before she has a chance to react, she's against the wall, Rowan's lips against hers.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, firstly, my apologies about making ya'll wait so long. To put it lightly, I've had a shit ton of things happen since I first wrote this story, and I could safely say that not all of them were good things. However, I finally have a second chapter out, and there will definitely be a third, although I don't know what will happen after that. Also, I wrote the last part of this chapter at like 2 in the morning, so if you're reading this right after I've posted it, there could be mistakes. I'll try and edit them later, though. 
> 
> ALSO: I doubt anyone will, but if ya'll could read my ending note about Rowaelin and my theories about it in the future book(s) and contribute your opinions, that'd be amazing!

Aelin Ashryver Galathynius is going to be the death of him. 

He remembers, not too long ago, when he hated her. When he despised her for being too- too much like him, and too much like Lyria, all at the same time. 

He knows he hurt her. He intended to, and he succeeded. At first, the thought of causing her pain gave him- well, not joy, because only Lorcan could be that sadistic, but it ignited something deep within him, some kind of feral, animal satisfaction that the pain she caused him through remembrance and guilt could be repaid to her. And her silly, childish reactions helped his ego.

Until he learned they  _weren't_ childish. That he, the elder by centuries, is the childish one here.

The irony of it doesn't fail to impress him. 

Several weeks into their relationship, he learns that she was in Endovier. For months. That she survived- barely. He never sees the scars on her back from her time there, but he knows they must be there. 

The knowledge is made worse by the fact that it isn't Aelin who tells him it; he overhears it from Luca and Emrys one evening in the kitchens. Apparently, the girl had let something slip about her wonderful vacation in the salt mines one night while half-asleep doing chores and Emrys had instantly seized onto it. She didn't say anything else about it, but just that one piece of information was enough for the puzzle to finally fit together for Rowan. 

That marks a change in their relationship- at least on Rowan's side. He definitely tries to treat her better, but the girl doesn't seem to notice. She hates him just as much as she always has, and after a day or so, Rowan goes back to insulting her. It's easier. 

Of course, his insults definitely lack heat now, and it's definitely more of an effort now, but again, Aelin doesn't seem to notice. 

And then, just in time to make everything worse, along came Gavriel. 

The annoying thing, for Rowan, is how almost  _possessive_ she is. She's part Fae, to be sure, but Rowan does  _not_ belong to her. Just the way she tries to get hold of him, the way she subconsciously bares her teeth at Gavriel- he can't take it. She acts as if she's his mate, and the very idea defiles Lyria's memory. 

Still, he pushes his anger down, intending to take it out that night via Gavriel's tattoo. 

Aelin doesn't take the hint. 

He regrets the words as soon as he says them, the taste bitter, like ash on his tongue. 

 _"You are nothing to me, and I do_ not  _care."_

He returns to Gavriel, and the taste lingers. 

"She didn't deserve that," the golden-haired warrior tells him. There's no judgement in his tone, but all Rowan has to do is look in his eyes and it's there. And...something else. Something like...protectiveness? 

"She's not your daughter, you know," Rowan says, ignoring Gavriel's reprove. "You would've been able to smell it." 

The other male makes a noncommittal grunt. 

With a sigh, Rowan returns to the tattoo, nausea settling faintly in the pit of his stomach. 

 

* * *

 

Gavriel leaves the next day. When Rowan bids him goodbye, the blond-haired warrior fixes him with a stern gaze. "Fix things with her," Gavriel commands. "She doesn't deserve all the shit you've thrown her way." 

And even though, deep down inside, Rowan knows the other male is right, he still refuses to accept it. Refuses to accept that this is  _his_ fault, that he is hurting Aelin. Like a child, he continues playing victim, and that's what drives him to tie Luca and shove him onto a frozen lake. Because he's beginning to know how Aelin works, and he knows how to hurt her. 

He knows he's pretty messed up, by human standards- hell, who is he kidding, by  _anyone's_ standards, Fae included- and he knows that he has no actual excuse for the reason he's doing it. He wants to hurt Aelin, plain and simple. He wants to hurt her because of who she is- because despite the pain in her broken, atrophied heart, she's still a light, and her light is blinding him, reminding him of everything he's spent decades forgetting and he hates that. He hates  _her._

Rowan sighs, rethinking that statement. No. He doesn't hate her. He cares for her, just a little bit. Just enough to make him feel guilty, to make him feel like he's tarnishing Lyria's memory. 

But whatever the case is, it's not worth thinking about at the moment. He needs to go get Aelin. 

 

* * *

 

When she goes to leave, Luca calling for her from the kitchens, he stops her. For the first time, he looks her straight in the eye. 

Aelin's eyes are surprisingly pretty for a demi-Fae, even one that's in her Fae form. They're a deep, bright blue, with gold around them- Ashryver eyes. He's seen them before, once, but Aelin's are much brighter, much more brilliant, than the other's. 

What catches his attention, however, aren't the eyes themselves. It's the lack of emotion that's behind them.

Rowan's seen plenty of dead bodies before. He's seen countless sets of dead, glazed over eyes with vacant expressions. 

Somehow, Aelin's eyes remind him of that. 

"Don't you dare touch him again." It comes out somewhere between a hoarse whisper and a croak. 

As she moves to go past him, he raises a hand. Stops her. She grabs it and throws it out of her way, burning skin searing his own, making an involuntary hiss come from his mouth despite himself.

"Don't touch me, either." 

He stares after her, lost in thought, wishing he could somehow fix what he's done- what he's said to her.

 

* * *

 

By the time he's joined them in the kitchen, Aelin is- quite literally- on her knees in front of Emrys, Malakai, and Luca. He hears the tail-end of her apologies and wishes he had the maturity to do the same to her. God knows she deserves it. 

They accept them, barely. Rowan can see the shadow of hurt still in their eyes and knows, as Aelin does, that it will take a while for it to fade entirely- if indeed it ever does. 

Then, somehow, they're washing dishes together, and for the first time, he sees her laugh. It's not even that funny- Luca tripping over something and falling flat on his face- but his own lips curl into a half-smile before he even knows what he's doing, and when the boy gets up only to slip  _again_ and end up back where he started, it turns into a full-fledged grin. 

Aelin glances back at him, still laughing, and says, "You'd think he'd have better balance after all that time he spent on the ice." Rowan snorts, agreeing, and then, just to get her mad, replies, "After practically killing him several times today, it's understandable he's weak-kneed around you." 

She glares, but with far less heat than usual, and retorts, "I'm not the scary one. You probably looked at him wrong and he collapsed from sheer terror."

"Hey!" Luca protests. "I'm right here!"

Emrys huffs, right beside them, the kind of sound that's neither approving or disapproving. "Well, at least you're  _trying_ to make up now." 

Rowan opens his mouth to protest but snaps it shut when he realizes that maybe, maybe he actually is. 

 

* * *

 

When he gets to his room that night, he's exhausted. The burn Aelin left on his arm had blistered, and now it throbs, an angry pink welt that lies where his tattoo used to be. He sighs, examining it. He's going to have to fill it back in, but not tonight. He needs to wait for it to heal before he can go back over it. Even as fast as he heals, he'll still probably have to wait another few days, if not a week, before it's ready to bear the pain and stress of the tattoo needles. 

There's a knock on his door, just as he's sitting down. He growls. _"What?"_

It opens, revealing Aelin holding what he recognizes as the salve she was given her first few days here. She must've noticed his burn.

"What do you want?" he asks harshly. Aelin looks at him for a long moment- perhaps a little too long, then tosses him the salve. He catches it easily.

"I thought you might want this," she says. She doesn't say anything else, but he can see other words, sentences she's doesn't give voice to either from fear or something else. Apologies, explanations, defenses. Something else is in her eyes- a strange kind of pain- and when he sniffs, she smells unnaturally fragrant, like she just spent an hour or so dicing up herbs in the kitchen. It's a bit odd, but Rowan supposes Malakai might've told Aelin to do it to help make up with Emrys.  

"You could heal me yourself, you know," he finally says when the silence gets a bit awkward. "You have that gift. It's in your blood." 

She glares, but it makes her look like a wounded rabbit trying its best to be angry and failing miserably. "There's only the barest drop of water affinity in my blood, from my- from my mother. It's not enough to heal anyone. I was told that long ago. That my flames were the only useful part of me." 

He wonders if she's always had such low self-esteem; if she's always acted like she has a huge ego to hide it, or if the insecurities are more recent. 

"Go to bed," he tells her. Her shoulders sink a little, but she turns and walks away, not even pausing to see if he has anything else to say. He shifts, opening his mouth, and he thinks he sees her pause, but he clamps his jaw shut again, the words fading, and the door clicks shut. 

 

* * *

 

"You're completely insane," Aelin tells him. "You want me to tend three fires for, what? The rest of the night?" 

Rowan suppresses a sigh. "Until I say to stop." 

A faint grow emanates from her. "I could kill someone." 

"Then don't get out of control." 

She glares at him, eyes glittering hatred. He expects her to put up a fight, but instead she turns to the bonfires. The moment she exerts her will over them, they change color- blues and purples and, if he's not mistaken, black flames. He knows that the colors of one's powers are supposed to symbolize their user, and he wonders what that says about her. 

"Your power has evolved over the weeks." he's not really sure what else to say. 

"At least, even if I'm useless, my flames are slightly entertaining to watch," she replies, voice a little too dull, too quiet for her usual sarcastic tone. Rowan frowns slightly. He hasn't called her useless, or even insulted her, for days- weeks, almost. He doesn't know why she still thinks he dislikes her enough to actually agree with her, since that's obviously what she was expecting. 

Several hours pass, and he can tell she's getting tired. He can smell the sweat, and- is that blood? 

He turns to her, ever so slightly, and sniffs. There are so many scents mixed together, it's nigh-impossible to isolate any single one, and after a minute of trying, he finally gives up. As he does so, the male notices a change in her facial expression. Before, it had been strained with concentration; eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. Now, almost all the tension's gone from her body, and he sees her sway with the music. 

Rowan's seen that expression before on too many young Fae. She's falling under the thrall of her powers; a thing that's hard to resist, especially with a power as large as the one Aelin seems to hold. 

"Easy," he murmurs into her ear. She flinches. He pretends that didn't happen. 

"I know," she hisses back. "When can I stop?"

He thinks for a moment. Aelin's strong; she should be able to resist the pull of her powers, and he knows she's nowhere close to a burn-out. "When I say so." 

The girl slumps, and Rowan takes pity on her. "Not much longer." 

She visibly sags again, this time with relief, and Rowan wonders that, were he to say something else, if she'd be able to sink any lower without hitting the ground. She looks around, at the dancing Fae and the music, and he thinks he sees her begin to sway to the beat again. He needs to somehow make music work with her, instead of against her. 

"Easy," he says again. "Let the music steady you." 

Her expression slackens, and her hand trembles slightly as she reaches it towards the fire- it's such a small movement, Rowan doubts she's even aware she's doing it. Concern begins to roil in the pit of his stomach. 

 _"Easy,_ Aelin," he almost hisses. "Calm down. Steady yourself." 

Her gaze softens, her hand clenching as if to grab at the fires more than a hundred feet away. Rowan's seen that look too many times, and he knows it's too late. Aelin's fallen captive to her powers, and he doesn't know how to bring her back without hurting her. Or if he even can. 

"That's enough," he hears himself say through the faint ringing in his ears. He grabs her arm roughly. "That's  _enough,_ Aelin." 

She takes a step towards one of the fires, pulling him with her. It's like she's not even there; like she's sleepwalking. Her eyes are sleepy, unfocused, dead in an entirely new and disturbing way. 

"Look at me," he tries, unable to keep a tiny bit of concern from leaking into his voice.  _"Look at me."_ the fires blaze higher, and the Fae around them step back a little, more curious than alarmed. He knows that, if she gives herself over to the fire inside her, she'll die, just as surely as if she were to burn out. He can't let that happen.

"Stop. Stop this. Stop the fires, Aelin." 

She takes another step. He tightens his grip on her arm, fear pooling in his gut. "Aelin!" She keeps walking, and frustration and fear battle within him. "Aelin, stop this! You're going to burn out!"

Her mouth opens but she doesn't respond. Rowan makes up his mind. He knows what his only option is. He lets go of her arm, whispers  _I'm sorry._

Then he sucks the air out. 

She falls to the ground, gasping or choking, he's not sure which. The fires flare, then the purples and blues fade into normal red as her tether vanishes. Inside Aelin, however, the fire flares higher than ever. The grass smolders around her, and Rowan can feel the heat from her skin all the way from where he's standing. 

Fear seizes him, for a second. He's never saved someone from this kind of thing before. He doesn't know  _how._

Aelin stops breathing. It occurs to him, belatedly, that he'd really rather the idiot girl not die on him right now. "Breathe," he orders, breathlessly, then curses softly. "Breathe. Hold on." 

A confused jumble of voices comes up, dozens of Fae asking about the fires, about the girl smoldering on the ground. The smarter ones leave, yelling for healers and water. He lifts her up, concealing his wince when the inferno of her skin presses against his chest. In seconds, the heat burns through his clothing, leaving what he knows will be blistering welts all across his torso, but he refuses to let go. 

"Aelin," he murmurs, almost as a prayer- to what god, he knows not. "Aelin, stay with me." 

He follows the other Fae into a building, drops her into the waiting tub. The wildfire inside the girl boils the tub almost instantly and he hears either a growl or a pained whimper; he's not sure which.

Rowan curses. Other voices surround him, yelling at him to freeze it. Of course he's trying to freeze it; do they think he's stupid? What else would he be trying to do? 

As the water chills, the fire erupts inside Aelin again and the tub steams. Rowan curses again, grabbing her, hands blistering as he holds her. "Get another tub!" hurried Fae grab an empty tub and fill it, and with a sigh of relief he lets her drop into it, freezing it even as she's sinking into the water. It heats back up again, and Rowan doesn't want to think about how bad this would be if Aelin were just a little bit stronger, a little bit better trained. He freezes it again, curses as it warms, cools it down, curses some more. After a while, he stops thinking, just lets his instincts do the work for him, the strain of using his powers barely noticeable. 

After what must be almost an hour, the fire inside her finally gives up. The water cools down enough to retain a slight chill. 

"Good," he finds himself saying, relief making him weary along with the copious amounts of energy he spent fighting her. Without the proper time spent drawing up energy, he's weaker than he should be, and if Aelin had been much stronger, that would've been all that was necessary to seriously injure her and everyone around her. "Good. Good job, Aelin."

One of the healer Fae approaches him. "We should take these clothes off her," she says and Rowan nods. "Help the cooling process."

Aelin lifts her head, looking so exhausted he marvels she could move at all. "No. Don't take my clothes off." 

Rowan growls, low in his throat. "This is hardly the time for modesty, Princess. And you're hardly the type, so knock it off." he bends down, reaching for her clothing, intending on stripping it off himself- a general caring for the well-being of a soldier, nothing more. 

"No." there's a pause, and when she speaks again, she sounds so pathetic, Rowan can't help but give in. "Please." 

He sighs. "Aelin-" 

"Please." he has no idea why she's so adamant- what could possibly be so important that a Fae experiencing burn-out symptoms would go to all that trouble. Somewhere deep inside his mind, a suspicion begins to grow, combined as it is with the many peculiar things he's noticed about her; the strange, varied scents that make it impossible to distinguish anything about her, the ever-present sadness he tries to ignore, the dagger he saw once in her room and didn't have the heart to take away, the way she always wears clothes that are a certain length. He knows there's something off about Aelin, but right now is not the time to question her about it. She has her secrets, just as Rowan has his. He will not force her to share anything unless it endangers those he's protecting. 

 _But does Aelin fall under that list?_ His brain whispers.  _Do you protect her, too?_

He ignores that voice and snarls at the girl. "Fine. But you're staying with me tonight. And you don't get to argue your way out of that." Without waiting for her reply, he picks her up and carries her out. 

Under her clothes, he can feel scars and bumps and- and something else, something that doesn't quite feel like a scar. Something almost like knife wounds, but perfect, precise. 

The niggling suspicion in his brain grows, but he ignores it. They're just more scars. Nothing else. 

 

* * *

 

He never lets her out of his sight after that- at least, he tries not to. She always gets up earlier than he does and often does go to bed until he's asleep, or near it, but he tries not to let that concern him- tries not to think about what she might be doing.

Weeks pass by. Aelin's training advances to the point where he begins teaching her to form her magic into weapons. Disturbingly, dead demi-Fae continue to pop up- all drained, all with nosebleeds and traces of that foul, black liquid- and he finally caves one day and takes her with him to see one of them.

This time, the dead body looks different. Softly, Aelin murmurs, "This one fought back." 

Rowan nods, examining the clothes, the nails filled with traces of that black stuff, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Aelin wrinkle her nose, horror flitting across her face. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and that's all he needs to half-growl, "What is it?" 

"It's- the scent-" she pauses, looks down at the body again, shakes her head. "No...it can't be."

She doesn't say anything else for a while, so Rowan growls again, "What?" 

Aelin takes a deep breath. "When...when I was in Rifthold, fighting to become the king's champion, I found a series of tunnels next to the library. What I found there was...it wasn't human. It was...it felt  _wrong._ Even my human body could feel it. It gave me a nosebleed, too, just like with all these Fae, and the smell..." she shudders. "That thing almost killed me. But what if that was just a faulty experiment? What if..." she trails off, but she doesn't need to finish the rest of her sentence. Rowan can do it for her.  _What if the king had perfected it?_

Rowan swears, fighting to keep still. "All this time it's been picking only on the demi-Fae, why? To send a message? To test out their strengths and weaknesses?" 

Aelin shakes her head, face pale. "We need to find this thing, and destroy it. Before it's too late." 

 

* * *

 

 

Unearthly shrieks combat with equally unearthly roars, and Rowan clutches Aelin tighter to him. Brilliant- her plan had been brilliant. Reckless, yes, but brilliant- just like her. The idea of luring skinwalkers to combat with that  _thing_ had been one of the most idiotic plans ever proposed to him- and also one of the best. And it had worked. At least now, they know that the things can be killed. It's a shame that there wouldn't be a body left come morning for them to see exactly how it had been killed. 

Aelin releases a silent breath and sags in his grip. Rowan pulls her a little closer to him, letting her head rest against his shoulder. In doing so, his left hand grips her upper left arm, and he can tell she tries to suppress the emanating wince but doesn't quite succeed. Underneath his fingers, he feels precise, bloodied lines on her arm. He would've passed them off for standard torture, like he had last time, except he's fairly certain there are more this time. And now that he's touched them a second time, he can tell they're not scars. He can feel the scabs, the telltale dampness of her clothes which means there's blood, and the longer he touches them, the more he pokes at them, the more she stiffens.

"Stop it," she says finally, hardly more than a breath in case their enemies are still nearby. She moves her arm, forcing him to release his grip. Somewhere deep inside him, a growl begins to build, as his instincts, his duty, flares to life- a male's duty and honor, to protect. Fae males have that duty more deeply rooted in them than even the most honor-bound human man. 

"Aelin." the growl within him barely comes through to the surface, the male carefully reining in his power so as not to alert the skinwalkers. 

She sighs, her shoulders drooping. "It- it happened a long time ago. Arobynn wanted to increase my pain tolerance."

His gut sharpens in anger for her master- for that cold-hearted monster she was trained by- but he reins it in again, pauses his fury for the inconsistencies you'd have to be blind not to see. "They aren't just scars, though. I barely touched them for more than a moment, and I can feel scabs. Those aren't old torture wounds."

"They've never...they've never really healed," she mutters. "I've never really rested. Not long after they happened, I was sent to the desert, then to Endovier, then I fought as the king's champion. I didn't...didn't really want to rest." she doesn't have to turn around for Rowan to know what her eyes must look like, the haunted look in them. He understands, more than almost anyone. She didn't want to rest because resting would mean thinking of her lost beloved, and that is something she couldn't bear to do. 

In many ways, he and Aelin are the same. He doesn't find the idea as unsettling as he used to. 

 

* * *

 

 

Nothing happens, for days, almost two weeks. They send a request for reinforcements to Wendlyn, and are denied- the king's forces are already to them, and they can't spare a single soldier. For whatever reason, though, Narrok and his forces don't seem particularly eager to strike; Rowan thinks they're probably wary of them, now that they've taken one of the creatures down. Rowan's certainly not complaining. The extra days he uses for strategy, training, and building defenses, and Aelin joins him. She's surprisingly good at it, which he supposes is not a bad thing, seeing as she's the heir to a throne and needs to learn to manage it somehow. Throughout it all, as they lie in bed together every night, the urge to hold her an instinct he stifles with everything he has, he wonders about the lines on her flesh. 

He wonders if they've healed yet- how, indeed, they could've  _not_ healed by now, for surely her fast-healing Fae form would've done the trick, unless Arobynn used some sort of enchanted blade. He wonders what the scars will look like when they have; if they'll be slender, silver lines like a ghost leopard's claws or thick, lumpy, red ones. He wonders what the reasons for not letting them heal are, because he knows that there has to be at least a small amount of desire to keep them from healing or they would, most likely, already be there. 

And he wonders, as he drifts off to sleep, as he thinks he feels the bed shift and the princess get up, if maybe she put those lines there herself. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, I'd just like to discuss my very real fears about Rowaelin in Empire of Storms. 
> 
> Firstly: Rowan is immortal. Aelin is not. For them to actually have a long-time relationship, one of two things would have to happen- either Rowan somehow becomes mortal, or Aelin becomes immortal (if the latter happens, my prediction is she won't stay the Queen of Terrasen, since that'd make her potentially too Maeve-like, but that's just me).
> 
> Secondly: Rowan has already had a mate. Although I think Sarah has said somewhere that it's possible for a Fae to have more than one mate, I'm not completely certain about it- plus, don't you think the mating bond would've snapped in by now? Thus far, the only thing that's happened is the carranum bond and the whole blood-oath business (which is an entire other load of shit encompassed around my own vague suspicions Rowan might be bound to both Maeve and Aelin now, since blood oaths are supposed to be eternal). There's no mention of being mates, and you'd think that in a book series, the end-game ship would be the 'perfect' couple, i.e. they're mates. 
> 
> Lastly: I could be wrong, so correct me if I am, but I believe there are TWO more books; Empire of Storms, and another book after that (again, I don't know for sure, but I think so, because EoS says nothing about being the final book in its synopsis). Thus far, how long have Aelin's relationships lasted, exactly? Sam and her lasted partway through a book; Chaol lasted about a book. Rowan and her didn't really start until Queen of Shadows, so that's a book. It could be me, but two books is an awfully long time for one relationship, especially since, as a writer, you are expected to build relationships up along with the plot so that both climax (forgive the potential innuendo) at around the same time. If Aelin and Rowan DO last, something awful is gonna happen to them; either Rowan dies, is controlled, betrays her, or Aelin betrays him, etc., etc. 
> 
> So...that's my rant. These are my fears for Rowaelin. If any of you have actually read this far, congrats, and I'd like to know your thoughts down in the comments (yeah, yeah, I'm hungry for feedback, whatever lol)


End file.
